With relief, Gallienus saw the two thousand on the right resume their advance. Proculus might be a whoremonger, but he was a fine officer. And he was loyal. Gallienus found himself grinning. It had been an inept attempt by the frumentarius of Postumus to entrap Proculus. The whore masquerading as wife to the frumentarius had admitted everything without torture. Gallienus had had her whipped anyway. Her pain — the livid stripes — had added to his pleasure when he had taken the bitch himself. Afterwards, he had been merciful; merely giving her to Proculus’s men. It might be doubted if they had exercised much clementia. The frumentarius, of course, had died slowly.
A roar brought Gallienus back. The Angles on the rebel left had burst from their Shield-burg into a wedge. They raced forward. Fleet of foot, they caught Proculus’s men by surprise. They crashed into the legionaries before the Pannonians had a chance to shift out from their testudo into a fighting formation. Gallienus could see Angle warriors actually climbing on top of the locked shields of the legionaries. They hacked down with their longs-words, like crazed roofers demolishing the structure beneath their feet. Only the twelve-man-deep formation of the Pannonians, the constant pressure from the rear, was preventing them from being swept away.
Away to Gallienus’s left, the Roman legionaries of both sides were more circumspect. The big shields swept down, the men jostled further apart to allow them to wield their weapons. They exchanged javelins, drew their swords and then both sides charged. The clash echoed back from the hillsides. The advantage of the slope on the rebel side and the greater numbers on the imperial cancelled each other out. But it was an equilibrium purchased with men’s lives.
As the wings engaged, Legio III in the middle of the rebel line came to a standstill. There were perhaps thirty paces between it and the stationary centre of the imperial army. Gallienus stared at the rebel eagle, willing it to move. ‘Hercules, Saviour …’ He prayed desperately, mouthing the words aloud, unconcerned if mortals overheard. Deliberately, the eagle inclined forward. By all the gods, no. The eagle tipped further, swept right down to the ground. All the other standards followed. The legionaries put down their shields, reversed their swords, raised their right arms in salute.
‘Ave Imperator Gallienus!’ The men of Legio III chanted his name. Imperator Gallienus. It had worked. The deep-laid plot had worked. Venutus had achieved what he had claimed. The blandishments of gold had won over the spendthrift Spaniard Bonosus, and he in turn had brought his legion back to its right and proper allegiance.
Enfolded in hot battle, the men on the wings fought on, unaware of events in the centre. Things were different for the Raetian militia. Seeing themselves betrayed, as one they turned and sought safety in flight. The auxiliary archers, far from shooting them down, looked to get away first.
Gallienus looked up the valley, beyond the fleeing mob. The standards above the horsemen were turning, moving away. Simplicinius Genialis was enough of a commander to see the day was lost. The cavalry alae began to canter back towards the baggage. They would get through, but it would be difficult for the thousands on foot. Their numbers would hinder them, the carts and tents get in their way, and the hills on the right came round close to those on the left, leaving but a narrow passage.
‘Sound the recall,’ Gallienus said to the bucinator.
The call was picked up across the valley.
On either wing the combatants stepped apart. Tacitus could administer the sacramentum to the legionaries from Germania Superior on the left. Proculus could do the same to the Angles on the right.
Gallienus handed back the shield, sheathed his sword. He tried to think of an epigrammatic saying suitable to the moment of success; something modest, stern but memorable. Nothing came. He did not care. He had won. He had proved to himself he did not need divine aid. Why should he? Was he not worshipped as a god himself? In time, he would slough off his mortality, and take his place on Olympus.
A rider clattered up from the left. The men of Legio VIII Augusta and Legio XXII Primigenia had sworn the military oath to their rightful Imperator.
Ordering just his German bodyguard to accompany him, Gallienus rode across to the right.
‘I give you joy of your victory, Imperator.’ Proculus saluted.
‘What is the delay?’
Proculus shrugged. ‘The barbarians are reluctant to give their oath. They are too stupid to see their position is hopeless.’
Gallienus looked out over the crests of the legionaries. A big Angle chieftain stood out in front. Standards flew over the wall of shields: a white horse on a green field, various dracones, one white, another red.
These were Ballista’s people. The big, middle-aged chieftain even looked like him. Gallienus knew some words of their language. But it was unbecoming for an emperor to use such a tongue. He spoke in Latin, slow and clear.
‘Your leader has fled. The battle is lost. Give me your sacramentum, and you will serve in my comitatus.’
The tall Angle replied in decent Latin. ‘We gave our oath to Postumus, not to Simplicinius Genialis. Postumus has our word and our treasure.’
Gallienus unlaced his helmet, hung it on a horn of his saddle. Diplomacy should always be conducted with an appearance of confidence, and with an open hand. ‘Give me your word, and I will give you new treasure.’
‘We are not Alamanni. We do not break our word.’
Gallienus stilled his bodyguard Freki with a gesture. ‘I know the good faith of the Angles. I grew up with your princeps Ballista.’
At the name, the ranks muttered.
‘Ballista has served me for many years. Now, on my instructions, he travels to your homeland to bring your king and the peoples he rules back into my friendship. Swear your oath to me, and the Angles will be reunited.’
‘I must consult my principes.’ The warrior stepped back, and was surrounded by a group of mailed warriors, each as large as himself. They talked, low and earnest.
Gallienus sat his horse. It would not have been politic to tell these barbarians the truth, that Ballista was dead in the ruins of Olbia.
A different noble came out of their ranks. An older, grizzled man, his mail was clotted with blood.
‘You have not shown Ballista honour. We keep our word. We will leave this place.’ The chieftain moved back. The shields of the front ranks snapped together. The rest turned. Under the white horse banner and the white draco, they ran off towards their mounts. Those that remained beneath the red draco began to edge away.
For a moment, Gallienus was too angry to speak. A roar swelled up from the legionaries.
‘Kill them!’ Gallienus shouted. ‘Kill all of them, do not let one of them escape!’
XXIV
The Island of Hedinsey
Ballista walked down the gangplank. Maximus, Tarchon and Wada the Short followed him on to the dock; the rest remained on the Warig. He went up to the warriors. There were fifty of them, in full war gear. He did not recognize any of them. Under their helms, their eyes were unfriendly. Their spears were levelled. A dozen archers, bows drawn, stood off to one side, covering the ship. It was not quite the homecoming he had imagined.
A young warrior spoke the ritual challenge.
‘Strangers, you have steered your steep craft through the seaways, sought our coast. I see you are warriors, you are dressed for war. I must ask who you are. I will have your names now, and the names of your fathers, or further you shall not go.’